


the end of a half life

by grandstander



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: And so two worlds collapse in upon each other to form something new.





	the end of a half life

**Author's Note:**

> this is extremely influenced by mine and a friend's headcanons and interpretations, and this was also written for my garen blog, since this is our first "major event" in our plot. i thought it would suit fic form better, and because it took me like a week to write, i decided to post it here. i'm pretty proud of it, honestly. anyway, i hope you enjoy.

Like the waves that beat endlessly against the cliffs, The Might stands against the mountain that is the Hand of Noxus. It’s a  _ juvenile  _ warfoot, Garen’s vigor and passion driving his blade ( that is all his soul begets, it is the only humanity left in suit of armor— this  _ devotion  _ that burns in him like white hot fire ). He is a storm who stands in the presence of their own calm, their opposite and the other pole of their axis. 

It is not elegant. It is nothing like a dance. 

There is only power, strength, and determination. It is war, after all. 

And war is an act of  _ taking _ ; taking from the weak and taking from the strong. Robbery in chivalrous armor ( robbery of life, possession, nothing is sacred in this unholy matrimony of chaos and death ). Even those who would raise shields before swords find themselves throwing their hands against their ravagers; revenge in the form of petty justice. Though, the debate of morality is quite useless in the throes of wicked men and the damned, for there will always be only two sides to this. The  _ righteous  _ and the vicious— and a paragon is no man, he is will alone, and his will is righteous indeed. 

His broadsword raises like a silver ray of light, crying up towards the heavens with blood dripping down the edges and onto his already stained gloves. His voice bellows like a war drum, a shock wave traveling over the earth with all the power of a lightning storm, and lesser men turn to a beacon ( a man and not a man; his flesh is a man’s but his heart beats for a thousand and not one alone ). It is the rallying call of the Vanguard, a command to steel themselves and face this moment to their survival—  or their  _ deaths _ . 

So he wages on, like the tides cry out and  _ break  _ ( break their own bones, break another’s bones, it is all the same; the beach does not care for all will be withered down to join the sands ). His sword falls again like the crash of another wave, his back meets one of his soldier’s and it’s only a pause for breath, and another wave must collapse in this hurricane. 

It is  _ fate  _ that this storm would meet his eye of calm.

      —And it is fate that Garen would take from Darius.

Garen raised his broadsword with all the retribution that judgement day would bring ( his holy silver tainted with hate, for there was a vessel of his heart that was  _ blind _ — forgive him of this sin, this terrible sin; what a fractured man to be left stranded on this battlefield, in this broken armor ). The deaths of his company weighed heavy on him, stones piled upon boulders on his back, his heart weary and tired. An ache, an ache of heartbreak settled in him like  _ fissures _ , shadowed by a desperation to return some of this pain that circled so endlessly in him. 

The cry that rang out when his blade fell was one of the most anguished,  _ human  _ sounds Garen had ever heard ( a part of him that was broken, broke further—  _ they were both breaking _ ). The same noise echoed from Darius, shallow howls of pain as his body instinctively turned away from what caused such agony. Garen was left panting in place, exhaustion catching up with his body now as he stubbornly held his sword, a tether to his dignity and his place in this hellscape. 

When Darius turns back to him, it is slow and there is blood—  _ so much blood _ — streaming over the General’s hand and over his face, down his neck, trickling down his chest plate slowly. Garen had intended to strike through his shoulder, and now his gut wretched when the Hand of Noxus looked at his own red soaked palm, a shadow of horror and shock breaking the stone of his features. There was too much blood to see the eye that had been there before. 

The general’s remaining red eye ( red, red, so much  _ red  _ ) looks at Garen, his mouth agape in his moment of shock. Darius’ heart thunders within his chest and he had not thought he’d ever feel such  _ betrayal _ ( but perhaps his heart was already the betrayer; he was human and his heart shattered within the palm of the man who held it ). And what reckless beings humans are, throwing their pain wildly at one another to relieve their own aches, only to inflict more upon each other.  

Another howl breaks through the dying chaos that was the ashen remains of this fruitless battle; it is not quite a battle cry, it is more intimate, it is the enraged and  _ pained  _ cry of a man who was taken from. 

**Reap what you sow**. 

Garen forces his broadsword up and backs it with one of his forearms, carrying the weapon as one would a shield. It is not enough to break the swing that rips him from his footing (  _ nothing  _ could hope to save him from this retribution ). The curve of Darius’ axe breaks through his armor at his back, driving itself into the back of his hip until he can feel the same edge puncture his pelvis once more— the weapon had been driven clean through him. The scream of agony that rips from his lips would shake the bones of the damned. 

The knight swallows all that threatens to spill from his lips, curses and moans of pain alike, for he would rather die with  _ dignity  _ than wither into nothing. Darius’ axe was still hooked into his body, and he can feel blood beginning to soak through his clothes, slowly traveling down his leg. Despite the build of a stone statue he attempts to mold himself too, his breathing is still labored, each inhale forcing a wave of agony with its core being the puncture wound at his pelvis. Garen’s gaze remains locked with Darius’ own intense stare.

He stands with his jaw locked, biting off whatever cry may leap from his lips. Garen still stubbornly holds his sword, too, though it rests at half its glory, his hands trembling with the heavy weight and the pain raking through his body. It was very much his  _ anchor _ , keeping him silent and present. The battle becomes an agonizing stand still, as if the axe in his side was a lock that kept them both in this moment. When Darius finally pulls it away, his own movements harsh and rough ( blood loss and his own pain wearing away at his edges ), and finally a muffled, weakened groan falls from the Might’s lips. Without the heavy steel in his body, he can feel blood begin to pour even more from the wound. 

His head bows forward momentarily, teeth grit and his eyes close as he tries to stomach the pain. Through  _ willpower  _ Garen remains on his feet, but it is like cast iron— he would collapse if he were to try and take another step. His broadsword falls another measure, but still he remains diligent in holding it. If he is to  _ die _ , he intends to die with honor; on his feet and with his weapon on hand. 

Garen meets Darius’ gaze once more with a furrowed brow, and he notices that the blood still seeps from his wound, a trail left over the front of his armor by now. The knight tilts his chin up, waiting for the blow to come, steeling himself and his soul to meet the end of a soldier—

With more swiftness and power than he thought the General had left, his sword is forced from his hands, the tether that kept his body grounded in this moment. The action is the catalyst that forces the cracks in the foundation to break through them both, as if rupturing with the pain and weight of this  _ ruthless  _ battle. Without his anchor, the Captain collapses to his knees, one of his hands coming to rest over the open wound in his side. Darius is not far behind him, the head of his axe meeting the earth while he grips the handle to at least keep himself upright. Again, Darius’ hand returns to his marred face, cradling the wound.

The world begins to slow as they break and crumble apart, Darius’ grip along the hilt of his weapon slides down as he is brought to his knees, too. The both of them are left in the wake of destruction, and Garen feels his entire body run cold for he had failed. He had failed his people, his homeland, his family; what use was a man who had been defeated in battle and was left with his  _ useless  _ life. He feels his body churn with guilt and shame, begging him to collapse inward until his existence was nothing. 

“You have bested me,” his voice breaks the silence, shattering the glass that had kept them barely separate. “ _ Kill me _ .” His words are not so much a plea, and they are not acceptance either; it is a man who knows defeat, who has failed his purpose. What use was a paragon who could not stand, who could not protect his people? The guilt that settles in his stomach like heavy weights was almost as painful as his physical wounds.

Darius’ gaze turns to him once more, his expression unreadable and covered in drying blood. “Do you  _ want  _ to die?” he asks, harsh and callous as his brow furrows more. What use was there in throwing his life away? 

A frustrated exhale leaves Garen, his jaw clenching as he bites back his pride. He did not  _ want  _ to die, but he thought it only right; his failure and defeat in battle begets that he is not fit to serve his purpose. If he returned to Demacia, he would be nothing more than disgraceful to his family, his prince, and his country as a whole. “You have defeated me. It is only right,” he answers, again swallowing his shame. If Darius did not kill him, his own  _ guilt  _ might. 

The General’s shoulders shift, his hold on the hilt of his axe forcing him to stand straighter while he scrutinizes the Captain of the Vanguard. Garen cannot read his expression, it sits like unphased stone washed in blood. “What about that sister of yours— you’re going to leave her alone, then?” he asks, voice gruff ( his hand still remains over the left side of his face, as if to hide the sign of weakness his body now bore ). “What good is that honor of yours if you’re  _ dead _ ?”

The mention of his sister only pours salt to the wound, driving against opened flesh and seering his agony into his memory. He grit his teeth as his head bows forward, clenching his jaw as a new fury burns in him. “My honor is my code,” he answers, his fingers curling into tight fists. He continues to swallow bitter words and wrath along with his pain, rust coloring his soul and tainting it as he continues to do so. He found himself wishing he had been given the noble death he so readily accepted. 

“What kind of man would I be if I was not honorable?” Garen raises his gaze, then, blue eyes as intense as always. 

“A living one, for starters,” the General answers without pause. He found himself confused and frustrated, which he assumes Garen feels the same ( and he would be right ). It was as if they were speaking to each other in different tongues, unable to find the bridge that connected their  _ terribly  _ and wonderfully different worlds. 

Garen’s frustration becomes evident as another forced exhale leaves him, his brow sinking further and his lips purse. “A living man without honor is a worthless man,” he returns, an edge of bitterness to his tone. Finally, he tears open his ribcage to pull out his heart; the core of his beliefs and his courage. The power behind his voice fades, dissolving to a man speaking to another man. “My word would mean nothing—  _ I  _ would mean nothing— if I did not maintain my honor.” 

“Is that what they tell you, then?” Darius’ voice comes softer as well, but Garen hardly knows his tones and cues. They are using different signs, different words, different body language; coming to an understanding in the midst of their wreckage was like wading through mud. 

Another solar flare of rage runs through Garen’s veins, burning him like the sun. He forces himself to become a black hole in turn; cold and consuming all that may be or was on this battlefield. How could he expect a Noxian to understand a code of honor? “It is what I believe,” the knight answers sternly, distant. “My honor means much to me.” 

Darius can  _ feel  _ Garen removing himself, forcing himself back into the cold and unfeeling mold of the paragon. He is losing the humanity that he had violently thrown against him, and some part of him swells with a muddled sense of anger and pain. It seemed almost cowardly after all that had happened. “It means more than your own life? Your family?” he questions, stoic voice holding an edge of frustration— again,  _ another wall _ ; this felt less like a maze and more like wall after wall. 

“If I am not honorable, what could I  _ possibly  _ mean to my family?” Another bout of shame, another shadow of disgrace looms behind him; he can see and feel his father’s gaze of disappointment. Blue eyes that were as cold as ice, were as cold as he was trying to force his burning core to become. “A disgrace has no word, no influence, cannot protect.” A fraction of his shame seeped into his voice, forcing him to avert his gaze. To think he could of died with honor and spared himself this torment. 

“Then take that sword of yours and drive it through me.” 

Darius continues to answer him without fail, as if he can see farther through this thicket than he can. It frustrates him endlessly, as if this death of his is being drug out so that each of his organs and every vavle of his heart could be dissected. It strikes him silently, like a swift bolt to his heart, that he will miss his sister even in death, he will fail her. His heart feels like stone. 

“No,” the Captain says solemnly, “My conscious would not allow it. That would be a cheat’s way of keeping my honor.” 

Finally, a lull in the argument that they are having while soaked in blood ( their own and other’s ), to which Garen is thankful for. His chest and stomach are beginning to ache with the effort to breathe. 

“I don’t understand you,” Darius says, breaking the silence, and it’s a mixture of observation and commentary. To understand how such a man was willing to throw his life away was beyond him; he felt as if he was working his way through a tangled mess that was the Captain’s conscious and morals. It seemed to be simply a  _ waste  _ more than anything. 

“Nor do I understand you,” Garen returns without waver, his vexation leaving him with a huff. 

“Well, that’s a  _ start _ .” A bemused noise seems to leave the General, a chuckle that is almost only an exhale of breath. Garen purses his lips in return, and his lack of understanding towards the other man reinstates itself. What could possible be so amusing during a time like this? 

Another lull in the rhythm emotions dissolving into new ones. Anger gives way to exhaust, confusion to openness; the song is changing. 

“My honor, my word— it means much to me, General,” Garen begins, the edge of frustration dissolving in his voice. It is quieter as his humanity returns to him. “If I have no honor then I cannot serve my people. I cannot be just with them if I am not just with myself and my failures.” Tenderly,  _ almost carefully _ , he tries once more to translate his soul into a human language, to form his passion into cohesive words ( his strength is waning, he sounds  _ tired  _ ). Garen finally raises his eyes to Darius once more. 

The effort is not lost on Darius. He can hear and feel the edges of his resolve soften, he can  _ feel  _ the human in him once more. He in turn softens slightly as well, to try and understand; to meet him at the center of their axis. “... I understand,” he says, nodding once. 

Darius’ answer comes as a surprise to Garen, evident in his shocked silence before he answers, voice still soft and human, “Thank you.” 

The General meets the Captain’s gaze finally, his fingers of his eye curling slightly as he falters, but he slowly brings his hand down. The wound is  _ gruesome _ , and a new root of guilt adds to the garden within Garen’s soul upon seeing it. Fresh blood still flows from it, but not as violently as before. An apology also sits at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite form it into tangible words. Instead, Garen forces himself to his feet, thought it was a slow and difficult task. At the very least, he intends to show his respect.

In return for having been shown a piece of the Captain’s wounded soul, Darius pulls through the stone and roots of himself, digs beneath the careful and silent armor to draw out his own tender, beating heart.

“As I am, I cannot face my people.” And a tether between them binds, for Garen can feel his empathy circle within him for he feels the same. “I can hardly face myself,” Darius continues, “I failed them.” 

His words echo through Garen; like two birds singing the same sad hymn.  _ Finally  _ their distant tongues come to meet and they have found the same language, the same song. Unfortunate that it took such horror and such agony to find the same path. 

“Does your culture not value survival?” Garen asks, his intent genuine “Have you not won this duel?” In his eyes, Darius was a victor and he rose to the call of his nation— _ to be strong and survive _ — while Garen had failed his.

“We have our own sense of justice and honor, Crownguard. We value strength and survival, but mercy and understanding have a place among us.” 

Garen is caught off guard by the General’s statement, but the honesty of it leaves him humbled. How foolish of him to think he knew them so well, but then again, who was he to blame when that was what he was taught since birth? It leaves his rose colored glasses chipped; the Noxian General became less his duty and more a man before him. 

“You have shown strength and survived, you have shown me mercy, and you have won. Why would they not accept you when you exhibit their morals?” Again,  _ honesty  _ and a genuine curiosity colors his voice. Just as Darius had shown understanding to him, he feels compelled to find the same for the General within himself. 

Darius grows  _ heavy  _ and tired, his bones crumbling within himself and his veins turning to ash. The bitter taste of failure was like bile in his throat, threatening to drown him. His eye flickers downwards as he remains pensive, unsure of where to begin with this guilt. He questions why he entertained this conversation to begin with, too, but the beat of his heart betrays him instantly. Somewhere, somehow, he had found himself wanting to find the man underneath the Demacian armor, wanted to see him rise to his full potential ( and the  _ cruel irony _ that it would require for them to tear each other down first; a new foundation was easier to work with than a cracked one, though ).  

“I have lost my purpose and my use,” Darius begins, his words sounding like a knell to himself. “If I cannot fight, I am useless. I can’t defend my people.” 

A quiet sigh leaves the knight, and his heart rings with a kin sorrow. A fraction of his soul is reflected to him within the eye he wounded, the eye he took— the purpose he took from Darius. It is gruesome and terrible, it is hurt and broken. 

“You could relearn, could you not?” he asks, almost tentatively— as tentative as his boisterous voice would allow. “There is a warrior among your ranks who has sight in only one eye.”  

It is, perhaps, not the best attempt at consoling ( and likely the wrong place, too ), but Garen had never been skilled at such things. All he knew was that he saw pain, and felt it within himself, and forged himself to become a weapon of retribution. His voice had become a roar of power, not a softened heart. 

“I am not just a soldier, Crownguard,” Darius answers, as gently as he can will his tired, gruff voice to be. “I am to represent Noxus— Her strength, her honor.” 

“You do.” 

“As do you.” 

They have found it— their core, where their two souls meet along the axis of their worlds. Their old worlds collapses and fell into each other to create something new, and it is beautiful and shared. They fall into the step of this dance, they answer without faltering to one another, bare and honest; answering each other as heartbeats right after the other. The air around them moves gently, as if a caress, and Garen finds himself speechless to be so quickly answered.

“I have never seen a man as just and honorable as you are,” Darius continues, his chest swelling with too many feelings; golden, red, and blue all at once. Quietly, gently, he keeps the liquid gold that thunders through his vein within himself, just as he has done for many moons now. “You serve your nation well.”

For the first time in a while, Garen casts his gaze downward, words and feelings caught within a thick lump at his throat. To think he had concluded this man as evil— he had always respected his strength as a commander and the loyalty he inspired in his soldiers, but he had been the opposition, no more than that. Understanding was a blessing and a curse.

“... Thank you, General,” the Captain answers. The quiet whirlwind within his soul seems to calm, if only for a moment, the winds and storms lulled as they lay themselves bare. As his pulse thunders, he runs with it, the courage that runs through his spirit like thunder taking hold ( his soul knows, at least, that this moment is pivotal; this moment is the end to a half life ). 

“I cannot imagine you would be useless to your people,” Garen continues, returning to meet the General’s gaze. He can almost hear the cry of a harp as rain slowly begins to meet the earth, an uneven rhythm ( unlike their newly born axis, but it is necessary to wash away their crimes, to be born again, and to  _ grow  _ ). “If I were to place my fail in any Noxian’s survival, it would be yours,” he speaks honestly, from his aching heart. “You have always prevailed. You are strong, as your country is.”

Darius feels his heart constrict around itself, pulsing violently against the way it squeezes and begins to swell all at once. What few words he finds to speak are gone, leaving his throat empty so that his heart might leap from it. He swallows all that is and isn’t there within his voice, the soft and lulling thunder that was his distant thoughts. He cannot will himself to break the other man’s gaze, not when he had spoken so earnestly. 

His momentary shock was certainly visible, he’s sure, but in this moment they are standing upon the same new foundation. They are equals. 

The general nods once, a show of respect.  “ As you. ”

Garen nods in return in the same act of respect. He only turns to take the few pained paces to pick up his sword, and though it makes the wound in his side  _ burn  _ ( and a new trail of blood staining the leather of his armor ) , he must carry it along with his pride. They  both  must, for that is what they are left with; wounds that will become scars, and their pride. 

“ Good luck, General, ” Garen says as he turns back to face him, his sword hoisted onto his shoulder and his free hand over his side. 

“ The same to you, Crownguard, ”  Darius answers in the same rhythm they had forged before. He mirrors the Captain’s motion with his axe, bringing it up to rest against his shoulder. 

Their tracks are slow as they part, but they are destined to be. Their souls, too, are weary and tired; to die and be born again within one battle is always a painful course. Neither of the soldiers will be able to carry their many dead home, and their own bodies returning will be only a bitter consolation. Perhaps some of it was destiny, but perhaps some of it, too, was will. Afterall, what reckless beings humans are.

Courage, do not falter, soul, do not weep. 

_ May we meet again. _


End file.
